Momma Davey
by bartcn
Summary: When Jack falls sick with the stomach flu, Davey takes charge and does everything he can to put Jack back into health. Unbeknownst to Jack's horrible stubbornness, he may need the help of a couple others to keep Jack where he needs to be... whump!jack / sick!jack and caretaker!davey (plus a few other newsies)
1. 1) You're Sick

"Can I slap him?" Albert asks, gazing at Jack Kelly's unconscious expression. "I've always wanted to do that."

"We're not slapping Jack," says Tommy Boy. He hops off his bunk and steps towards Jack and Crutchie's bunk. "Just yell on my count, okay?"

"I don't like this idea, Tommy Boy," Crutchie chirps from ubder Jack's bunk. "What ifs we scare him too much or something? Or if he gets really mad at us?"

Tommy smiles reassuringly at the boylike newsie who looks back at him with soft chestnut eyes. "He won't get mad."

"Yeah," Romeo says from a few bunks away. "Even if he does get mad, it's his fault for not waking us up early like he always does."

"We're almost an hour past our regular schedule," JoJo adds from his bed next to Jack and Crutchie's, patting down his nest of a hairdo.

"Don't it really matter if we'se on time or not?" Splasher, the newest addition to the newsies asks, emerging from the bathroom as he runs a pair of wet hands through his curled hair.

"Not really," Elmer replies from under Jojo. "I mean, we're won't get fired or anything since we'se workin' for ourselves nowadays and we got no real working times. You outta know that getting out late means Buttons, Les n' Davey are gonna be waiting around until they hear a word from one of us. Bein' late means losin' morning customers too, so I guess it kinda does matter if we're late."

"Makes sense," Splasher responds, shrugging with understanding.

"Okay, ready guys? On three," Tommy Boy whispers.

The boys are now gathered close to Jack's bunk, ready to go on with their not-so-little shenanigan.

"One... two..."

The door of the newsie bedroom bursts open and Davey speeds towards the flock of newsies who now have their attention towards him.

"What are you guys doing?" He lowers his tone when he notices the sleeping Jack Kelly just feet away from him. "Buttons, me, and Les have been waiting for you guys for almost an hour!" He sterns in that authoritative tone that passes just so easily for him.

Les appears at Davey's side and looks up at Jack. "Is he okay?"

"He's fine, kid," Henry replies from beside the child. He pats the fragile shoulder of Les as some sort of encouragement.

"We're just about'tuh wake 'im up," Race says from across the crowd.

Davey crosses his arms and raises his brows at the newsies around him. "Why are you guys all gathered like that?" There's a curious yet suspicious grin forming at the corners of his lips.

"Because..." Tommy Boy speaks with a characteristic slyness to his voice. "OnetwoTHREE!"

Like a zoo, the room explodes with the deafening sound of over a dozen newsies hollering and screaming. Any sound other than the ruckus of the boys would become unnoticed over the thunderous roar of almost every head in the room.

Jack awakes with a jolt and a burst of anger. "HEY!" He shouts at the top of his lungs.

Quickly, the room simmers down, but the newsies continue to snicker, awaiting Jack's next response to their noisiness.

The lead newsie brings an arm to his eyes and falls back into his pillow. In an almost inaudible tone he says, "leave me alone, huh?"

"Come on, Jack," Race chuckles. "You'se late." Then he corrects himself. "_We'se_ late."

Jack turns away from Race's voice, now facing Davey. He stretches the ratty excuse for a blanket over his head and curls into a ball underneath it. His response is something that sounds sort of like, "Mnnh".

"It's a bright and sunny day, Jack," says Specs who is stood on Crutchies bunk and peering over the blanket-covered man. "Perfect day to sell papes."

Jack lets out a long sigh and an odd noise that could either pass as a cough or a grunt. "Just start without me, I'll be there in a minute."

Crutchie stands his crutch on the ground next to him and pulls himself onto his feet to get a better view of his friend. He knew that something was for sure wrong with him. "Jack, you okay? What's the matter?" He asks, giving a concerned look to the blue lump on Jack's bunk.

"I'll be okay, Crutchie. Don't worry about me," says Jack's muffled voice.

Davey steps into the crowd, shooing the newsies away from Jack's bunk.

Everyone looks around at each other as they step away from the scene, no longer smirking or sniggering. Now they were kind of fearful. Could their leader, Jack Kelly, the man who rarely ever gets bad days, be in distress?

The newsies watch closely as Davey approaches Jack. "Uncover your face please."

"Hnph."

"Jack," Davey says more sternly. "Please. I'm not gonna do anything." He places an assuring hand on his friend's shoulder to which is jerked away by Kelly. "Come on, don't make me pull the blanket off of you myself."

Without a word, the blanket is slowly lowered from his face, revealing a grimacing Jack Kelly. He blinks open an eye to scowl at his intruder. "There. Happy?"

Davey furrows his brows at Jack's response and gently feels Jack's clammy forehead and neck with the back of his hand.

Jack tries his best not to show how relaxing the cool hand felt on his hot skin.

Davey frowns, "You're sick," he says plaintively.

Suddenly, the room arouses with various stunned and concerned murmurs from the surrounding newsies.

In Jack's whole four years of being a newsie, he had only gotten sick once or twice. That's a very small amount for most people, especially for kids like him and the other boys who live in the street. Maybe everything's finally catching up to him...

"I don't need your help, Dave," Jack whines. He goes to bring the blanket over his head again but is stopped by Albert who is standing by Jack's feet.

"Let him help ya, alright?" Albert demands, trying his best not to sound too harsh.

"Geez, alright." He coughs and shudders into the bed. This action can only be noticed by the kids closest to him.

"Here," Davey sets a hand on Jack's bicep. This time he doesn't pull away. "Why don't we just sit up, okay?"

Jack doesn't move, but stares back into the eyes of the newsboys standing behind and around Davey. He doesn't like how everybody was watching him be so... vulnerable. Jack's face goes hot, and not just from the fever that Davey recently diagnosed him with.

Romeo seems to have caught on, because he beckons Mike and a couple other newsies to leave the room with him to which they follow. Less than ten seconds later, other newsies realize it would be best to leave and the room. Now, the only figures that stand in the room are Davey, Les, Race, Specs, Mush, Albert, Crutchie, and the ill stricken Jack.

"Can you sit up?" Davey questions. Jack only seems to want to stay in his tight fetal position.

"Um..." he opens his eyes, which meets with Crutchie's. Oh, he can't look him in the eye. Crutchie looks so darn worried about him, his best friend, which makes him feel even more awful. "I'd rather not."

"Let's get you up." Davey climbs onto the edge of Crutchie's bunk to be more level with Jack. "Deep breath, okay?"

With discombobulation, Jack draws in a breath, and obliges to Davey pulling him arms from around his stomach and stretching his legs out. The sharp ache in his stomach grows immensely. He wants to cry out in pain but doesn't let himself, he just tightens his jaw and allows Davey to continue helping him up.

As Jack stifles his whimpers when being pushed upright, Albert leans upwards towards Mush who is sitting on a top bunk near Jack and Davey, cups a hand over his mouth and whispers: "You know, it's actually kind of relieving to see Jack suffer for once." He's only half joking.

"Dude!" Mush whispers back.

There's a brief silence. "I can hear you, you know," Jack grumbles, glaring at Albert.

Albert smiles briskly, but when he realizes he's got nothing to retort, he salutes and makes his way out the door.

After telling the boys he was gonna go sell some papes and wishing Jack a "get well soon", Mush leaves the room as well, leaving five newsies and a very sick Jack.

Davey resumes what he was doing and finishes easing his weak and agonized friend to somewhat sit— or slump— against the bed frame.

"Tell me what's wrong," Davey urges.

Jack avoids eye contact with Davey and pathetically shakes his head. He proceeds to press his palms against his eyes as a flood of nausea increases the tosses and turns from the inside of his stomach. "Nnn... go away. I don't want you to see me like this. It's for your own good." He cups a hand over his mouth and releases a faint burp. Something is bound to come up eventually, and it definitely won't end up being pretty.

Crutchie winces. "You obviously need some help, Jack. Davey'll take good care of ya," he says in his usual cheery tone.

Race, Specs and Les all "yeah" in agreement.

Jack gives Crutchie a meek smile. "Thanks, pal.".

Davey has taken care of a few of the newsies ever since he joined. Crutchie more often than the others. The guys tease him about it, calling him "mom" sometimes, but it's not the worst thing ever. It's a good feeling to Davey, knowing that your friends can rely on you to make them be happier or feel better. He just never thought he'd see the day when he'd have to take care of Jack…

"How long have you been feeling like this?" Davey asks. He steps off from the lower bed to give Jack some space, as he wanted him to be as comfortable as possible.

"Only this morning," Jack replies weakly. His eyes shut again to battle another wave of sickness. This time he only barely overcome the feeling of having to revisit yesterday's lunch. "Can't you just leave me for a bit?" He sighs, not daring to open his eyes again.

"Jack," Race says, walking by the bed. "Let Davey help you. I'm gonna go carry the banner." He almost steps out, but is pulled back by Davey, who has just come from telling Crutchie to watch over Jack.

In a low voice he tells Race, "Can you bring a bowl or something from downstairs? I don't think I'd be able to get Jack out of his bed before he... you know..."

Race nods and Davey returns to a sight of Crutchie reaching up to pat Jack's head who seems to look more sick than the short time Davey had left him.

"Jack, let me help you, you look like you're about to keel over," Davey says with earnestness in his voice. He mounts his legs halfway up the bunk ladder in hopes to bring Jack to get at least onto the floor.

Jack leans away from Davey which causes his head pats from Crutchie to discontinue. "You can't make me do anything I don't want to do," he mumbles.

"Okay bu–"

"Oh god," Jack suddenly grouses. His hands grasp onto one of his bed railings and he hangs over it to retch. The act was violent but unproductive in which the only thing his body was willing to lurch up was another belch and a glob of thick drool. Crutchie and Les couldn't help but flinch away, afraid of what that retch could have brung.

Davey didn't seem perturbed at all, in fact, it made him even more concerned. Now he's up and sitting on the bed with Jack who continues to heave over the railings. He wholeheartedly and carefully rubs Jack's shoulder blade while pleading for him to not throw up on the already rotting floors.

"What is taking Race so long?" Specs asks from the other side of the room.

Race is moving quickly, practically throwing cupboards open and rumbling around in every one of them.

"I don't get how every mixing bowl and washing basin can be dirty or used," he grumbles to no one. It's easy to determine that Race is stressed. The best thing he could find is a dusty lavender glass and his newsie bag. No way he's letting him hurl in that, though.

Jack gives forth a long groan, pushing himself away from the edge and collapses against his pillow. "Feels like I ate a cactus or something." He snakes his arms tightly around his abdomen as his face contorts in pain.

"Did you eat anything weird yesterday?" Davey asks from the bathroom. He's filling up a glass of water for Jack.

"I ate a pile of wood chips once," Les pipes in his proud, youthful voice. "My tummy hurted real bad." Les grimaces as if he, too, was having a stomachache.

Specs just stares at the kid. "You ate wood chips?"

Without any guilt, Les grins and begins to tell his story. "I was only three when it happened. I was just sitting in the park with Davey and my parents, building something with the plants around me. I guess I wanted to know what wood tasted like because the minute nobody was watching me, I ate a whole lotta dirt! I was really sick for like three days. And Davey got in trouble for not watching me like he was supposed to."

"Everyone says it's my fault that Les ate all those wood chips." Davey rolls his eyes. He steps out of the bathroom to face Specs.

While Davey starts his banter on why he shouldn't have gotten in trouble, the scene in the background distracts the newsie he was talking at. Spec's vision focuses past Davey who is unaware that his friend had lost intrest, and is now on Jack and the three other boys in the room.

"Get outta your bed!" Crutchie is shouting up the bunk ladder at Jack who is gagging into his fist.

"RACE! HURRY UP!" Les bellows."Get outta your bed!" Crutchie repeats. He's practically begging now.

"Crutchie–" Jack gulps. "Crutchie," he says in protest. "If I move even an inch, I'm gonna—"

Jack's voice is seized by Les running towards his brother shouting: "Davey! Jack's boutta spew!"

"What?" Davey stops his rant to look over his shoulder to watch the chaos that went on behind his back.

Jack sits up and slaps a palm onto his lips. And then, everything is in slow motion.

Davey shoots up from his spot and runs towards the bed in hopes he'd make it in time before bedsheets were soaked. In another corner, Race bursts through the door with a piercing red, tin storage bin in his hands. He calls out for Crutchie and tosses it to him.

All while this is happening, Specs moves as quick as he can to snatch Jack's blanket off of his bed and out of the wet zone.

Faster than Davey can get to Jack, Crutchie - who somehow manages to move quicker than he has ever had - is now with him on the bed, shoving the bin into the lap of the sufferer seated across from him.

The sound of vomit coming in contact with the tin bucket was kind of a relief to the boys in the room. It meant there was nothing else to worry about.

For now.

Crutchie is wordless, his arm stretched sincerely around Jack's torso, rubbing and patting his hunched shoulder. "Dontcha feel better already?" Crutchie says, trying his best to disguise the disgust and worry he feels deep inside.

Jack doesn't answer. He just stares right into the bin with his mouth parted. Eyes squeezed shut, he battles another wave of sickness. He loses, and another stream of digested food and stomach acid gushes from his lips.

Specs watches with a feeling that could be described horror and repulse. Les isn't sure what to think of the situation, so he just sits on the bottom bunk and tries not to listen too much to what's going on above him. Davey's standing cross armed, a little ways away, but still observing intently with apprehension. Race heeds with a grimace painted on his face.

"I'm gonna bounce off," Race says hurriedly. "Carrying the banner!" In valediction, he waves and slides out the door. Apparently, this was too much for the guy.

Les hops down from the bed and follows. "I'm going too," he says to Davey.

Davey nods softly, taking a few seconds to glance at his little brother. "Go ahead."

Once Jack's dry heaving silences, Crutchie retracts his arm back to his side and asks, "You done?"

Jack flicks his eyes up to the boy gazing back at him. He looks away with embarrassment and nods, reaching behind him to retrieve a handkerchief from under his pillow.

After blowing his nose, he's gestures for Crutchie to get off his bed. "I'll go clean up. Then we can go sell some papes," he says with a half-hearted smile.

Crutchie frowns but starts his descend down the ladder.

"Oh no," Davey chuckles sarcastically. "No way you're going out there today." He's close the bed now, so Jack can easily read his disapproving expression.

"Yea, Jack," Specs says. "Not a good idea."

Crutchie carefully steps onto the floor, making sure not to put too much pressure on his bad leg, and looks longingly at the sick newsie. "You should stay here and let someone take care of you. Maybe it'll be fun." He shoots an encouraging smile.

He doesn't even take a second to think about it. "No. I'm not that sick." Then his nose scrunches and he remembers the bin sitting in his lap. "I should get rid of this."

The newsies around him nod in agreement. Jack scoots over to the edge of his bed with the bin in hand. He clenches his teeth when a sharp pain shoots through his stomach.

"You okay?" Davey asks.

Jack ignores him.

When he finally completes his painful journey down the ladder, he brushes by Crutchie, Davey, and Specs, doing his best to avoid eye contact on his way to the bathroom to clean out the bin.

Jack scowls at himself in the mirror as he dumps out his vomit into the sink. He seems to look as terrible as he felt, there was no way of hiding the fact that there was something wrong with him.

Whatever. It wasn't going to stop him from sneaking out and selling papes.


	2. 2) Jack’s Plan

Jack has a plan.

Maybe it isn't the best. But he was gonna find a way to sneak out, whether Davey likes it or not.

On the way back to his bed, he's deadpanning, careful not to reveal that he's got something going on.

Everything seems to be in a haze, and it's a struggle to correctly put one foot in front of the other without tripping or wanting to groan. However, nothing's gonna stop him from doing his job. It'd just be plain wrong if he didn't sell papes over an itty bitty stomach ache.

He grabs onto a ladder rung and hoists up a leg. The stretching action causes his stomach muscles to painfully contract. Instinctively, he places a hand on his abdomen and laboriously finished his climb. He takes a seat on his bed and watches the five below him.

When no one moves, Jack recites a line from his not-so-genius-but-hopefully-effective plan. "You guys should get to work. Don't let me stop you," he adds lawfully. A drip of sweat trickles down the side of his eye, but it doesn't phase him. Perhaps someone had forgotten to crack open this morning. There's no way he was sick enough to be sweating already.

"You guys go. I can watch him for the day," Davey offers to Specs and Crutchie, standing next to him.

"I can help, if you want," Specs volunteers. "I don't mind missing a day's worth of dimes."

"Me too," says Crutchie.

"It's up to Jack." Davey looks up at Jack with a questioning stare.

In this case, Jack would have been frustrated with their lack of obedience, but he knew what he was doing. Everything was going exactly to plan.

"That's nice an' all, but I really think you should get to work," he says with a little sweetness to his voice. "You too, Dave."

"You sure?" Davey asks. Secretly, he felt it wouldn't be safe to leave him alone for the day, but he wouldn't try arguing with him right now.

"What? Don't think I can take care of myself?" With that line, Jack was sure Davey wouldn't attempt to talk back to him.

"Alright," Davey says. What is there to lose? Jack was a good leader to the others, so why couldn't he be a good leader for himself? "You know where to find me if you need me."

"Just around Stone Street." It was Davey's usual selling spot. He'd have to remember to stay away from that area... and Specs, Race and Crutchie's. His head crunches from thinking about all of this. A breath of fresh air should hopefully calm his pulsing temples.

"I'll's be at my spot, in case Davey gets too bossy," Crutchie jokes.

"Me too," Specs says.

Jack nods, pretending to agree with them. Deep down, he felt terrible (not just his illness). He'd never lied to any of the newsboys before. For a moment, he contemplates just staying at the lodge. It wouldn't hurt to–

"Great," says Davey. "Guess we'll be heading out. You need anything?"

"No thanks, _mom_," Jack snickers. Being sick didn't stop him from letting out some 'Jack Kelly' humor.

The newsies share a laugh then say their goodbyes to Jack then the three are off to .

"I'll tell Mr. Bill you're out sick," Crutchie says on his way out.

Bill, the old man who owns the Newsboy Lodging House, collects info on who's in and out every day. He's usually never seen in the newsie bedroom, which is why Crutchie had offered, but Jack declined. "You should hurry outside," he tells Crutchie. "I can tell him. It will be more professional, I guess."

"Alright," Crutchie's replies with that doggone smile.

Jack's chest throbbed. He hated lying to Crutchie. If he finds out that he had snuck out to sell papes, Crutchie would feel awful. Unfortunately, Jack saw no way of turning back, so he had to let it be.

Now everyone was gone, and the room gave off a eerie and lonely vibe. It was certainly a weird feeling to be the only newsie in the lodgehouse. Usually, he'd be one of the first out the door.

He was waiting for some time to pass before heading out himself. The time was spent listening to his buddies yelling headlines on the street and trying to rub away his headache.

When the time to go out finally came, he climbs out of his bed, praying his sore legs won't give out during the day, and that no other newsie would catch him and tell Davey or Crutchie.

Slowly, he slips on his working boots that sat next to the ladder, tied them, and reaches up to grab his newsie bag that hangs from his bed post. Stretching out did not feel good at all. The act made him much more lightheaded than he had already felt. He steadies himself then puts on the remaining accessory.

While adjusting the newsie hat on his head, he looks into the bathroom and stares into the red storage bin sitting on the counter. The scene of him getting sick replays in his head, causing a feeling of nausea to rise in his stomach. What if that happened outside?

No. He pushes away the thought. He'll just hold everything in. It's fine.

And with that, he steps out the door to start his day. This was gonna be easy as pie.


	3. 3) Catch Me

Jack winces in the burning sunlight that shines into his oversensitive tired eyes. August is nearly ending, but the world still decided to let the sun take over the weather forecast.

Straight ahead of him, he already spots a fellow newsie. It's Mike and Ike, who always sell together by 9 Duane Street and Foley square. It's practically inevitable that he would run into them. However, they are on the other side of the street, so it'd be easy for Jack to sneak away from them.

He ducks around several pedestrians in a swift movement and escapes the small misadventure. He slides around a corner and breathes against the wall. Maybe he shouldn't walk as fast today.

Jack glances around the busy streets of Manhattan and the forks and turns in the sidewalks. He doesn't have a usual selling spot to be heading to, instead, he works almost like a business man, on his own and anywhere he found himself. Sometimes he'd walk from Lower Manhattan– The Newsboy Lodgehouse location – to Washington Heights and back within a single day. But from the way his legs burned with each step, he figures it may _perhaps_ just stay around Lower East Side and hope he doesn't run into Romeo, Les or possibly someone else.

It was more likely that he'd run into Romeo, since his selling area is in Lower Manhattan. He spends most of his time carrying his banner on Delancey Street because as a younger boy, eleven or twelve years old, he enjoyed gazing into the shop windows, dreaming of the day he can buy himself a new pair of shoes that Race is always telling him about. Aside from not having enough money (even after the strike, newsies still were quite low on money ), shop owners weren't fond of "dirty boys" entering their ever-so-perfect shops.

Les, he probably wouldn't run into, but it's likely. On weekends like this, the small boy is prone to leaving his brother on the other side of the district to venture off to other parts of Lower Manhattan and visit the other newsies that sold there.

Crutchie is another likely newsie he'd come across. He sells in the Bowery, which is close to where Jack has been planning on staying for the day. There is a short chance he'd see him, since everyone knows that Crutchie doesn't tend to move around so much.

There aren't many places to chose from that are a short walk the lodgehouse where he wouldn't come in contact with anyone else. The Lower East Side is his best go, so he would have to keep his fingers crossed.

Immediately when he reaches his destination, he begins calling out headlines to the people of Manhattan. Only four sold papes later, his voice is cracked, and his head feels heavy yet light as a feather at the same time. Now his back– or his whole body– aches. He wasn't even doing much before he started feeling worse. Last time he felt like this, he was really sick. It was ages ago! He can't be sick now. He just can't...

Jack advances to a smaller cafe with a large awning in order to hide from the ever-so-large sun. He is sweating like a hog, and that is no good for business. Nobody wants to approach a smelly, sickly, young man on the street.

Leaning against the iron fencing of the cafe fells irresistible. It seems to be the only way to continue his job without his legs giving out.

He groans. If he could just sell all his papes within the next—–

Oh no.

His arms wrap around his abdomen and he doubles forward. Is he being stabbed by a ghost?

Jack slowly straightens his body but is pulled back into his bent position as if he is made of elastic.

Giving in to the pain, Jack decides that the best thing he could do was go inside, get a drink of water– maybe a seltzer– and then go back to selling.

Jack's stomach lurches.

Maybe he'd use the bathroom too. Good thing there's a fully functional cafe standing right behind him.

With all the strength he can gather, he pushes himself off the fence and heads inside.

The cooler air is refreshing, but the smell of brewing coffee makes him feel nauseous. He looks around for an employee. Ah, there he is! At the counter.

"Hello, sir. Do you mind tell–"

"Hey!" Barks a young man with a stretched stache behind the counter. "No newsies in here! 'Specially you, Jack Kelly!" He points a bony fingers at Jack's nose.

"What?" Jack is appalled. "Why's that? You guys used to let me in like it was no problem."

"I'll have you know my father is a reporter for The World. I don't like what you've been doing out there." He scowls and flutters a head towards the door.

Jack mimics his expression. "You'se got not business tellin' me what I can and can't do. You guys got a bathroom?" The feeling of bursting was becoming dire.

"Get outta here!" The employee thunders.

He gives up. A very un-Jack move, but there was no use in arguing and no time either. He made a note to not go back to "Pleasant Brews" (which was definitely not so 'pleasant') ever again.

Now he's back on the street, sun shining on his cheek, wondering what he's gonna do next. Whether it was puke or pass out, he couldn't do it here.

He rummages around in his bag for another paper and is quickly stopped by the rising of vomit at the bottom of his throat. This isn't going to end well for him.

Jack forgets about taking out another paper and darts to the side of the building, away from any attention he could get. The alley is narrow, and reeked of mold and rotting vegetables.

With just a whiff of his surroundings, his mouth fills with foul tasting saliva, and he might just pass out right there. His legs are are weak, and even though his mouth is watered like crazy, he was thirsty. Jack brings up a hand to wipe his forehead but he is no longer sweating. Could he be getting better?

He falls against the wall and coughs concisely. He waits, but nothing comes up even though there is something desperately trying to make its way out of his body.

Jack leans forward, despite the crunching pain in his abdomen, and places his hands on his thighs. Gravity is going to have to help him on this one.

Three deep breaths and a heave later, a surge of stomach acid streams out of his mouth. It seemed like his stomach was trying to get rid of _everything_ inside of it.

He stays in the position for awhile, not puking, but just trying to feel normal. Soft black dots dance around his vision and the ground beneath him rocks under his feet. No, he can't pass out now.

Jack slowly straightens his body but ends up stumbling backward. Oh god.

He looks up and squints at an object in his vision. Is it a silhouette of a man in the sun or a mind trick?

"Jack?" The figure called. It starts running towards him, and his mind deciphers that it's Romeo (oh, Romeo). "I thought you were staying..."

A tinny ringing sound drowns out his voice. This is is when Jack realizes that he wasn't gonna be conscious within the next few seconds.

He trips forward, towards Romeo, and mutters the words "catch me" before blacking out and toppling into the arms of his friend.


End file.
